


a thought, dear

by pro_se



Series: softly, in vain [5]
Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, Kissing, Romance, Sleeping Together, non-linear
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-30
Updated: 2018-09-24
Packaged: 2019-07-04 16:04:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15844698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pro_se/pseuds/pro_se
Summary: Ch. 1: Morning conversation, or a lesson, about kissingCh. 2: Nighttime heart-to-heart with a sincere pirate





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> a/n:  
> you’ve been hit by  
> you’ve been struck by  
> inspiration to write another vane fic  
> \---  
>  _Honey just put your sweet lips on my lips_  
>  _We should just kiss like real people do_  
>  \- "Like Real People Do" by Hozier

You turn over the mosaic tile in your hands, considering its weight and effort of haggling. It’s a fine craft, though the tumbled edges and chipped paint suggests both antiquity and careless handling. The merchant offers a wide, friendly smile. He’s none the wiser to know that you regularly deal with Nassau’s jewels and valuables trade market.

The moment you set down the mosaic, Charles Vane steps closer and scowls over your shoulder.

“What is this, junk?” he demands gruffly.

“Don’t be rude. I was just looking at the craftsmanship. Looked familiar.”

“Bullshit. You were going to buy it.”

“Not with you breathing down my neck,” you say, and he lightly cuffs you over the head. You smack his shoulder in retaliation. The auburn-haired man looks at you incredulously with those wide, bottle-green eyes. The two of you glare, ignoring the passing residents, tourists, and the merchant who starts to shrink behind his booth.

“You know, you’re pretty brave to stand off against a pirate,” he snarls.

You flash a fox-like grin, sharp and fleeting; it’s the kind that’s learned over time from your Nassau comrades. “Vane, you’re the foulest of them all.”

This warrants a short bark of laughter, and he rests his hands heavily on his worn belt. He flashes a mean smirk in the ill-fated vendor’s direction, then heads down the aisle in search of more baubles. You follow suit, letting your fingers trail over pottery shards and shipwrecked artifacts. Other stalls boast necklaces, rings, and shiny trinkets, eager to please one’s pride.

Unfortunately, none of the accessories here have a shard of caliber or validity. You find yourself eventually at the far end of the morning’s market square, listless and disappointed.

“Don’t looks so dour,” Vane says, stifling a yawn in the early sunshine. “Were you hoping they’d be real so you could report them to the commissioner?”

“No.” Though the extra cheques would do good for your account and reputation. “Sometimes I like to buy things for myself.”

He sounds doubtful. “I ne’er see you wear anything.”

You arch your eyebrows. “Maybe I don’t want the attention of pickpockets or purse-snatchers. Maybe you don’t pay attention.”

Vane grumbles incoherently. He links his arm with yours, and you automatically lean into his broad figure. “I give you _plenty_ of attention,” he mutters, and presses a chapped kiss against your forehead. A small smile dances on your lips. Upon his insistence, the two of you leisurely walk along the empty docks.

The ocean is a dark, murky tempest with eggshell-white foam that spits along the coast; Vane points out the slim riptide that threatens to steal away even the most experienced mariner. You glimpse it for a moment-- an illusion of calm and peace-- before it melds into the rest of the waves. The docks are slick with seawater and you dare to toe the edge of the boardwalk.

You stretch a hand out and feel the ocean spray against your dry, bronzed skin. You truly missed the ocean’s touch, even though you lived minutes away from her caress. Days from behind a trading booth couldn’t compare with a moment like this.

Vane warns, “If you fall in, I’m not going to fish you out.”

“If I fall in, I’m taking you with me.” You kiss him swiftly on the lips before he has a moment to react. “I’ll steal your breath first.”

Heavy hands wrap around your waist. Vane slots his chest against your back, keeping your gaze and posture outward to the ocean. You feel his beard scrape against the nape of your neck as he whispers, “Women like you bring bad luck to pirates like me.” You’re on the brink of slipping if you lose your footing, and fight to keep balanced in this precarious situation.

“You’re lucky I was your first kiss, Charles,” you manage to gasp, turning slightly to look at him.

His green eyes burn bright with interest. “Was _I_ your first?”  
  
“I believe your reputation would matter more than mine ever will. So listen closely, you fuckin’ vagrant.” He laughs and drags you away from the edge, and you seize his lapels with trembling hands. His expression reads, _I’m waiting._ “When you kiss someone, no matter the person, you want to draw them close enough to see their lashes. And you may focus on the lips or elsewhere: their cheek, their nose, the neck, but be mindful of their desires. A mouthful of rum or mint leaves does wonder for the tongue.”

“I see.”

You smooth out the creases in his jacket, then the scowl etched on his face. “Now, kisses can be as soft or as rough as you deem, but never forget to be gentle in the aftermath.”  
  
“Why?”  
  
“That way, they come back to you like a moth to the flame.”

Charles Vane narrows his eyes. He cups your jaw with a large hand, then ducks down to meet your lips as you’d expected and wished. It’s slow and hesitant, neither of you wanting to admit the intimacy of your on-and-off relationship, a love affair that’s as tumultuous as the ocean herself.

“Like this?” Vane murmurs against your lips, and then he _just_ dares to delve deeper in a way that makes your head spin. Your hands, once more, curl into his coat, and he sweeps your body against his. He smells like smoke from a fireplace, and decades’ worth of whiskey spilt on his dirty clothes. When he finally breaks away, your first instinct is to gaze around the docks and make sure that no one witnessed your romantic embrace.

“Who taught you to kiss like that?” you ask breathlessly.

“As far as I’m concerned,” Vane says as he draws you in again, “you were the only person ever worth kissing.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tbh i didn't want to create a new work for such a short word count so i'll toss it here for the time being :P this one is for the cricket stuck underneath my washer and chirps all night long

“There’s a cricket somewhere in the flat, and I can’t find it for the life of me,” you say exasperatedly, closing the door behind Vane as he enters. The auburn-haired man pauses and cocks his head. The two of you listen for a long minute, and to your utter disbelief, it is completely silent.

His lips curl up in a smirk. “A phantom cricket. Ne’er seen one of those before.”

You huff. “It’s probably offended by your rank.”

“You’re complaining about my stink? The woman who likes to do god-awful things like sleep in the same bed?” Vane tosses his heavy coat over a chair and wraps his arms around you, burying his face in your hair as he takes a deep breath at the end of a long day. Scents of his ocean-stained clothes and your ink-blot skin wind around your senses. You close your eyes, sinking into the embrace.

Sometimes it’s easy to show your love by just holding each other.

When you trust someone as intimately as Charles Vane, the idea of _easy_ shifts and becomes akin to _unbelievable_. This man would spit in the face of altruism; he would rather bleed than wallow in shame and he, undoubtedly, is the most sincere pirate that you have ever met.

Even if _sincere_ does not mean _nice_.

You spend the evening in front of the hearth, hands wrapped around a mug of spiced tea as Vane singlehandedly downs half a bottle of wine. You taste its tartness between kisses, gentle and rough and the occasional mix of the two. The pirate rambles about midnights on the black ocean and the scorching heat of Havana in that low, low rasp. He digs deep in his pockets and pulls out an unfamiliar gold piece similar to a Spanish doubloon, except it has unique, foreign markings.

Vane watches you examine the treasure with wide eyes and delicate touch, and he dumbly grins as you rave about excavated sites along the colonial coast. This coin is worth nothing to him without a wealthy history, but you could care less about its price. Its rarity and authenticity is what enchants your heart. He thinks that your smile is _priceless_. Eventually, you hand it back and he tugs you closer for a deep, insistent kiss.

“You’re pretty,” Vane murmurs against your lips, “but I like that mind of yours even better. It‘s like an oracle. Tell me something about the future, pretty one.”

“Fair weather waits for you on the horizon.” You lightly scrape your nails along his bearded jawline. “A wild boar haunts your yellow dreams. And… the ocean will not let you drown as long as you bleed.”

“Really?”

You bump him under the chin and laugh softly. “No, it’s all rot. Nothing is true.”

Vane rolls his dark green eyes, then kisses you once more, stealing a hint of ginger and cinnamon from your tea. It takes some encouragement, but you eventually stumble over to the bed, clothes and drinks abandoned to dry by the windowsill. Charles stretches out on his side, his lean and lanky build encompassing all of your smaller figure. His dark head tucks against your shoulder; his hands settle on your waist possessively.

You lazily stroke his hair as you both drift off to sleep, in the arms of loved ones.

There’s the sudden, harsh sound of glass shattering against the far wall of the apartment, and you jolt awake with fear in your heart. You gape at the wine bottle shards on the floor, then at the pirate next to you, his arm still outstretched in a throwing motion. You smack his bare chest and he winces.

“Ow!”

“Charles! What the hell were you doing?”

“Damned cricket wouldn’t shut up,” Vane grumbles, wriggling back under the covers.

You cover your eyes and groan. “Jesus, why would you throw the _bottle_?”

He makes a grunting noise, not wanting to commit to an answer. “Whatever. I got the lil’ bugger. And-- and I’ll clean up the mess in the morning. Promise.” His beard abrades against your shoulder as he dips his head and kisses your shoulders. Figured that while you’re awake, he’ll take advantage of the situation. His long arms wrap around you, lightly skimming over each curve and jutting rib like he’s memorizing your figure.

A moment passes, and then an insistent chirping song picks up again.

“Fuckin’ bastard,” Vane swears. “Now how am I s’posed to sleep?”


End file.
